Note: This is a sequel to Harvelle's Roadhouse, an SPN/Roadhouse Fusion where the Winchesters are bouncers, not hunters. Just. Just go with it. It's in my works list, but not really necessary to read first. Probably helpful, though.
Thank you: Sabaceanbabe and Raine for the beta, any remaining mistakes are entirely mine. They deserve medals. Not even kidding.
Feedback: Always appreciated!
For: Mitchy

It was after midnight and the apartment was littered with shadows, but the streetlight through the curtains let Sam pick his way across the floor without a stubbed toe or a face full of carpet.

When he was half way through the living room, his chest tightened, because maybe Jess left and never came back. A heartbeat later, he saw the silhouette of her jacket and bag, draped across the back of the couch. Her iPod was charging in its dock on the bookshelf and there was a plate of cookies on the breakfast bar.

He breathed out for what felt like the first time in days.

He dropped his bag next to the counter, grabbed a cookie, and shuffled into the bedroom. A familiar shape was curled under the covers; he kept the light off, he didn't want to wake her. As quietly as he could he shucked out of his jacket and toed off his shoes, and then he sat.

The bedsprings creaked under his weight, but Jess didn't wake up.

He smiled and carefully lay on the covers. She moved towards him as the old mattress dipped, but her hand didn't slide over his chest, there was no sleepy murmur.

The skin of her cheek was cold under his fingers and he could smell a copper tang in the air.

"Jess?" He jerked upright, pulled – wrenched – her across his lap and into his arms. In a muted flare of passing headlights, her eyes were wide and dull. Empty.

He'd seen bodies before: he knew the difference between barely there and never coming back. He shouted anyway.

Screamed and begged, and shouted again.

Shook her shoulders and sealed her mouth with his, forced air into lungs that couldn't use it anymore.

Whispered her name with his lips pressed to her temple, rocked her back and forth.

Heard the mechanical click.

The smell of gas began to overwhelm the tang of blood and his breath stuttered. Whether it was to kill him or to cover this murder, the next move was a spark. He should run. He knew he should run.

Her hair was soft and she was in his arms, and he wasn't going anywhere.

The sound of the door slamming in confused him: why would they bother? Then hands were on him, trying to pull him away.

He twisted away, jammed an elbow back into a target that grunted, but didn't fall back. "No, no!"

The hands kept tugging. He thought he could hear a voice, but it was far away – until it slammed into him on the heels of a hard cuff to the head. "Sammy. Sam."

"Dean?" Sam stared blankly up and wavered uncertainly.

Dean said something, but Sam couldn't hear him and then, somehow, he was off the bed and being shoved towards the door. He started to resist, but it was too late.

He staggered backwards into the too–bright hallway and Dean kicked the door shut behind them both. Faintly, Sam heard another beep and then a rush of air as the gas ignited. Something slammed against the door from the inside and the fire alarm began to split his head.

"Go," Dean yelled in his ear, and then pushed him down the corridor when he wasn't quick enough.

Another shove propelled Sam to move faster and he stumbled down stairs that seemed unfamiliar, even though he'd walked them every day. He hit the main door at something like a run and reeled out onto the street.

It was cold, but he could feel the heat of the flames licking out of the apartment windows. Groups of people on the sidewalk chattered amongst themselves; shocked, excited, some laughing.

Dean tugged him over to the Impala, opened the door and sat him in the passenger seat, like Sam was twelve and Eric Sommer had tripped him at recess again. His feet were being shoved into his sneakers and that was ridiculous. He batted Dean's hands away and reached for the laces, but somehow they were already tied.

Two fire trucks swung around the corner and peeled into the street. Pretty quick, Sam thought.

They were pretty quick.

Dean's hand landed on his shoulder and shook him. "Sammy, you in there?"

Sam stared down at the hand until it dropped away. "How did you know?" His voice sounded stilted and frozen; as if it wasn't his voice, wasn't him speaking.

Dean's gaze darted away and then back. "Later. We're getting the hell out of Dodge."

Sam guessed he zoned out again, because there were fingers snapping in front of his face and he had no idea how they got there. "You in there, Sammy? You listening to me?"

He focused on Dean's hands, the red flakes around his fingernails and the freshly torn skin over his knuckles. Ignored it. "Her parents. I have to call–"

Dean shook his head. "We don't have time."

"I'm not running," Sam whispered, still struggling for sense. "I didn't do anything wrong."

"You came home, had an argument and it got out of control – you hit her and she didn't get up," Dean said woodenly. "You panicked and torched the place to cover it."

Dean sounded so sure that Sam stared up wildly; terrified that was how it went down. What air he had was punched out in a rush and he gasped shallow breaths as the world grayed at the edges.

Dean swore and his fingers dug hard into Sam's shoulders. "Sammy, I swear to God, I will tell you everything, but right now, put your feet in the car and let's go."

It's history and Sam's six; it's midnight and Dad's dropped him on the backseat with the sleeping bags, and they're leaving everything he knows all over again.

Sam pulled his feet into the car and Dean slammed the door. The next second they were around the corner and the second after that they were on the empty highway. Sam thought if he gave it another second, just one more second, they'd be in another state; he had to stop now.

He watched as his hand reached out to the wheel and pulled, hard.

Dean jerked the wheel back around with a bitten–off curse and then they were spinning. The world outside blurred into a cloud of dust as Dean fought the Impala and Sam lost time again: in the next second they were on a dirt access road and Dean was staring at him, white-faced and wide-eyed. "Dude, what the hell?"

Sam shrugged and counted off the seconds on his watch. He waited five, just to be sure, and then said, "Sorry."

Dean managed a smile, but it didn't quite cover for the death grip he had on the wheel or the clenched jaw. He swallowed a couple of times and didn't reply.

"You said you'd tell me," Sam whispered. "Tell me."

Dean dropped a hand to the keys, but he didn't start the engine again. "We had a tail the last few miles coming back. I figured they'd follow me, but I lost them at the freeway. Made a one–eighty, found them parked up outside your apartment, asked a few questions …"

Sam processed this as he watched the last of the dust fall out of the light. Dimly he realized Dean had been trying to lead them away, but the only thing he could see was Jess' eyes, wide and accusing. "If we'd have been quicker," he managed at last. "If we'd just –"

Dean shook his head firmly. "Whoever they were, they killed her hours ago. They were just waiting for you."

"Whoever they were?" Sam wanted to yell, but the anger wouldn't come; there was just this empty space where everything real used to be. "It was Meg. You know it was Meg."

"Maybe," Dean said after a beat. "Maybe it was Meg. Or maybe it was Ava Gallagher. Maybe it wasn't either of them. They wouldn't say. Dad will know. We find Dad, we find who did this."

Sam glanced at him and didn't fight the laughter that welled up out of nothing; Dean flinched. "For all we know, they already took out Dad and this was just … just cleaning up."

Dean's mouth tightened. "We'll find him and we deal with this," he repeated stubbornly, like that would make it true.

"Deal with it?" Sam stared incredulously. "Jess is dead, and she's dead because of me. You can't fix that. You can't deal with that."

"This wasn't your fault." Dean raised his hand sharply and then didn't seem to know what to do with it – no one to hit, no punch to block; he dropped it back to the wheel. "You want to blame someone? You blame the bastards who killed her or – or you blame me for not taking the Harvelle job instead of you. This isn't your fault, you hear me?"

Sam looked away, but he could still see Dean staring at him in the window – a shadow behind him. His own reflection was dark, indistinct, but his eyes glittered. "Drive," he said.

Dean drove and Sam counted seconds, just to make sure they were still there.

–o–

At dawn, Sam wasn't exactly asleep, but he wasn't exactly awake either. Some place quiet, in between. The quiet slipped away when Dean cleared his throat and asked, "You thirsty? Hungry? You need to stop?"

"Dean, I'm not a kid." His mouth was dry and his throat felt sandpapered over; he coughed and tasted smoke, swallowed and tasted blood.

Dean gnawed at his lip for a second and then said, "There's a diner in a few miles, if you want to wash up. Get something to eat?"

Sam stared out at the night–streaked sky; it was a sullen, empty blue. "I'm not hungry."

"Get hungry, we're stopping."

"I don't want to stop," Sam said carefully, in the most reasonable tone he could hold. "I want to find Dad and then kill the son of a bitch who killed my – my – who killed Jess."

"Then you have to take care of yourself," Dean replied in a tone so similar that Sam would have thought it was mockery, if it weren't for the worry in Dean's eyes. "You do it for her."

After a moment, Sam nodded grudgingly. A sluggish thought threw up a flare. "How'd you know about the diner? You came down here?"

Dean shrugged. "Did a job, year ago maybe. Just a couple of nights."

"You busted your arm a year ago," Sam countered. "Bobby said you didn't work for two months. Why were you really here?"

"Sherri. Or, Shandi? Maybe Brandi – it's been a while." Dean's smirk was almost perfunctory.

"You didn't come by," Sam pressed.

Dean glanced at him, expression closed. "You want to do this now? Seriously?"

Ever since he was a kid, Sam had offset one hurt with another. A sprained ankle and he'd dig his nails into his palm. A cracked rib and he'd bite the inside of his cheek.

Always, always the pain he could control over the pain he couldn't.

Dad told him not to come back and Sam had left Dean behind.

"No," he said at last and ignored the flicker of relief in Dean's eyes. He turned his attention back to the road. "We smell like smoke."

"There's a motel, we can get a room. Shower. Maybe even sleep a few hours."

"Whatever."

–o–

The pressure was low, but the water was hot. Sam showered without really noticing either, just the blood that spiraled into the drain at his feet. The water ran clear and it felt like he'd lost something all over again.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he saw the bag on the bed. Not the bag he took to Ellen's, the one he'd left behind when he went to Stanford: one more unreal thing. "You kept it?"

Dean shrugged. "Threw it in the trunk and forgot about it. You leave any clothes?"

Sam excavated through the layers of four years gone. There were clothes – a shirt, a pair of jeans, socks rolled in careful bundles.

When he looked up again, Dean was gone and the shower was running. He dressed slowly, rolling the too–short shirtsleeves up to his elbows before he dug further into the bag.

There were a couple of books from a library in Montana, worn and scuffed with reading. A gun and a sheathed knife; he touched a finger to the edge of a blade and discovered it was oiled and sharp. Dean's definition of 'forgot' had always been a little different.

He felt like a snake crawling into an old skin. It was uncomfortable and tight, and he'd shed it for a reason. He slipped the books away and tucked the gun under his shirt at the small of his back.

"You want to go eat?" Dean asked, standing awkwardly at the door.

Dean had showered and dressed, he was even wearing his jacket. Sam shook his head and tried to make the world sharpen; it resisted.

"Food. Come on." Dean steered him out the door.

The diner was too bright and the tables glinted with polished vinyl, throwing glare into his eyes until they began to sting and water. He ducked his head with a wince and somewhere to his left, a woman made a sympathetic clucking sound. "You okay, hon?"

"He's fine," Dean said cheerfully. "Little too much fun last night, know what I mean? Gotta get him sobered up for work. Coffee, bacon, eggs over easy – hey, you still do that blueberry pie?"

The woman laughed, warm and easy. "We sure do."

Sam didn't look up, but from the woman's quieter giggle a few seconds later, he guessed Dean had given her the smile he's been using to win over diner waitresses since he was a kid.

When she was gone, Sam risked looking up. The colors weren't bleeding into each other anymore, but they were swimming – drowning – in the overhead lights.

He squinted until the world narrowed to a thin strip of light and shadow, and that helped. A little. "Where are we?"

"Just out of Greenfield."

Sam held his hand out. "Give me your cell, I want to call Dad."

Dean leaned back, well out of reach. "I tried, okay? Three times. It's going to voicemail."

Sam scowled and impatiently gestured for the phone. "I don't care; I'll leave him a message."

Dean's hands slipped into his pockets. "This is whatever the hell the 'my girlfriend just died' version of drunk-dialing is. No."

"What?" Sam shouted. Heads turned and eyes stared curiously. He grit his teeth and spoke in a painful whisper. "Give me the phone, Dean."

"Not in the middle of a freaking diner," Dean whispered back, and then gestured at the television. "Not when you might be starring on the damn news."

The saccharine murmur of breakfast TV joined the jagged confusion in Sam's head and he slumped again.

Dean relaxed enough to lean forward again and softened his tone. "Sit, eat and get it together, okay? Here."

A cup of coffee nudged at Sam's fingers and he wrapped his hands around it reflexively. It warmed his skin and then burned it; he welcomed the anchor.

Two seconds, three traffic updates, a dropped tray and a car alarm later, and breakfast appeared. Sam nodded to the waitress and more or less managed a smile.

One bite of toast and he gagged, bolting for the restroom and sending cutlery clattering the floor in his wake. He was dry retching when Dean appeared in the doorway a few seconds – minutes – hours – later.

Sam shrugged the hand that dropped onto his shoulder away and staggered over to the sink. He washed his mouth out and ran handfuls of water over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair and felt the cold settle into him.

The world snapped back into stark focus at last.

His knees shook with something too wrenching to be relief; he caught himself on the sink before he fell.

A hand gripped his arm and Dean's eyes warily met his in the mirror. "You with me now?"

"Yeah." Sam nodded as he tightened his grip on the sink, watched his expression harden into something he barely recognized. "Yeah, I'm here. Why are we here?"

"Dad's got a job in a bar in Coalinga."

Sam released his grip and straightened. "Let's go."